Origins: The Origin of the Persian slipper
by jaka ray
Summary: FOURTH CHAPTER UP! Review plz! It's inspired by Jeremy Brett's comments on Holmes' past life, which is included in the disclaimer...PS: about disclaimer: defiantly is supposed to be definatly; i cant spell..
1. Disclaimer

I wasn't sure if I was going to actually write this story, because before I could write it out I read Elisabeth by CAERISTHIONA and it's just so alike this in plot that I'm ashamed to write this; people might think I stole her idea. But I swear that this was my idea entirely. ENTIRELY! Seriously. I was inspired by one of Jeremy Brett's interview answers (actually, a couple of them).  
  
This is the property of The Goody Press-  
  
"What I do is always build up an interior life: Like I've worked out where Holmes was born; I've decided what his nanny was life; he didn't see his mother until he was 8 years old, probably held the rustle of her skirt. The Victorian nanny didn't do anything except rub him and scrub him, tuck him up in bed and dump him. Didn't meet his father until he was 20, and he (the father or Sherlock??) was a prided, frightened little man, as indeed was his brother, Mycroft.  
  
"There may have been this beautiful girl, that he fell flat for, but she didn't look at him. SO that broke his heart and he thought, "Well, I'm not going to be rejected again," so that's why he's the way he is.  
  
"He also loves children because I've wondered where his love is channeled: because no one can be that unemotional. But I think there is an intimation from the baker street irregulars, the street urchins, and I think he pays them. you see, I'm into fantasy again. I think Holmes loves children.  
  
I think it is his power of deduction, which is-you see, children have it until the age of 8, and then they lose it because they are told not to look out the window and to concentrate on their Latin. Holmes has been endowed by sir Arthur Conan Doyle with the antennae of a child.  
  
Also, something else - feminine intuition, which I didn't realize until I played him for a while. He makes these little leaps. You know how a woman can get an answer that a man has to work his way towards (to get all the facts)?  
  
Yes, so that's where I got my inspiration so I did NOT steal the idea from the author of Elisabeth, or anybody else for that matter. All my ideas are totally and completely original, and if I ever copy anybody's idea just a little, I will defiantly give them credit for it. OK, enough of my trying to convince you of my true innocence in plagiarism. "On with the motley", as Jeremy said. (This is ENTIRELY my idea! Even the Victor Trevor part!!! Sorry about that.) 


	2. The Boy on the Hill

The wind whistled softly through the grass atop a hill. Scattered across the hill were stones. Gravestones. Newer ones shone with a cleanliness, which contradicted the sadness of a cemetery, but occasionally an older stone was hidden behind dust and moss. How depressing to think that we will someday become such an abandoned heap of dirt. Sure, we'll be visited in the beginning, but soon enough our surviving lovers will die as well, and so the cycle turns. But that is irrelevant. What use is it to bemoan ourselves like this?  
  
A young boy walked among the stones, glancing and lowering his head humbly at each one, as if passing lords and their ladies at a banquet. Finally, he stopped at one, falling to his knees. Brushing aside the dirt and clearing away the creeping moss, the boy placed some wildflowers before it. He grasped his hands together, whispering words of prayer. With a tiny finger, he traced the carved words on the rock, slowly and carefully, like he was writing them himself. Then, he stood resolutely, bowed to the grave, and walked away quickly. But, at the bottom of the hill, he turned back as the breeze stopped and silence surrounded him. As his legs gave way under him, he crawled back to the top of the hill, back to the grave he had just visited. He stared at it, pulling his cape closer to him as a chill ran down his back. How heart wrenching it was to look down on his grave!  
  
Suddenly, his gray eyes filled with tears, and, sobbing hysterically, he threw his arms around the stone, the air filled with his grief-stricken cry. Even the hardest heart of all would've felt a wrench as it listened to these screams. They echoed forever on the hill, and if the passed persons of the burial ground had ears they might've risen from their eternal slumber. Louder and louder the boy's bawls rose, but it was no use. If only, if only, we could bring back the dead. Soon, he collapsed, weak and limp, next to the stone. But the tears didn't stop. They were a small comfort to the yellowed grass, as blood is useless to the battlefield.  
  
As his heart seemed to separate, so did the clouds, and the sun's rays shone down on the boy's soft blonde head. He looked up at them, it's warmth dancing across his face and drying his ever-flowing tears. With his hand he touched the beam, letting it twist and turn around his fingers. Like an artist with a brush of solace, the sun painted lines of red and gold over the child's body. He grasped the ray gently, and it lifted him up to the heavens. He felt as light as the wind itself; his breath caught and his lips pursued, kissing the clouds. Floating along the sky, his life flashed before his eyes, and he matured with his thoughts. A child of five, then eight, and then twenty. On and on he soared, until, with a final sigh of satisfaction, he dissolved into the night, for it doesn't take just a minute to live your life again. His soul became part of the stars, his mind the moon, and his heart the sky. Back on earth, the boy's deerstalker cap lay strewn across the grave of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Note: Hmm. I do wonder what color Holmes's hair was. Anyway, on with the first Origin story! PS I hope you "catch" the method Joseph used in the Naval Treaty! And there's also the pocketknife from The Abbey Grange? . Well. They're just references. I'll continue this as soon as I figure out what Holmes' nanny would call him. She wouldn't be affectionate enough to call him Sherlock, and she's to be a harsh, mean, cold (ok, think female future Holmes) person. Please hit me with your suggestions. 


	3. Sherlock's Auntie

Six-year-old Sherlock Holmes was awakened from his spot on the grass, where he had fallen asleep, by a gasp and a tug on his ear. "SHERLOCK!!! I've told you never to go outside without me!" Before he knew it, Sherlock, still half asleep, was being dragged back into his house. Drat. She had found him. His nanny walked him up the stairs, a hand grasped firmly on his shoulder. They went past his brother Mycroft's room, and then into his own. Even after a manner of minutes, which the nanny spent getting little Holmes ready for his bath (or "drowning", as he called it), Mycroft still didn't show up. But, of course, Sherlock wasn't surprised. In a way, he detested his brother, who was almost as harsh as his nanny at times. Mycroft rarely left his room, and usually spent his time working on something or other; Sherlock never knew exactly what. The elder Holmes was secretive and reclusive, so his sibling often spent his time alone, wandering the house.  
  
Sherlock was brought back to reality by a splash. Let the drowning begin, he thought sadly as he felt a chill dashed onto his warm skin. The water was cold and the brush's bristles hard against the child's bare back, who was already used to the cruelty but not at all ready to accept it. He could hear the grumbling of the nanny as she scrubbed and scrubbed, ignoring the raw redness of Sherlock's pale skin. But even as a toddler he never cried. Why should he cry? It wouldn't soften his nanny anyways.  
  
Holmes' nurse, Miss Laura Carling, although of an English descent, was born in the Middle East and had been to many places around the world with her Army father. However, her parents died when she was hardly a young woman, and as a result her heart was cold and hard, having been passed from home to home, unwanted and unloved. Her relation to Sherlock Holmes was as an aunt, being some distant cousin on his mother's side. His mother had implored her to come, for she needed a place to stay anyway. The father, who had left no clue of his sheer existence, had left even before Miss Carling had answered the mother's call. And after less than a year she had disappeared too, just after Sherlock was born. Laura, who had an air of haughtiness, was nonetheless caring deep in her heart, and stayed on with the two boys. Besides, no matter how cold you are outside, a little hope burned on inside her; her cousin would come back. It might take years until she would be ready to return, but she would. In the meantime, she made sure the boys were all right. Sherlock called her "Auntie" or "Nanny", and she took a special place in his heart, even though he often returned her coldness when he was confused at her behavior to him.  
  
Ignoring the boy's protestations, Miss Carling wrapped him tightly in the sheets so that he couldn't escape as he had done countless times. There was a sense of adventure seeking in him that made him different from Mycroft, and made him a load of trouble, too. Then, she left him alone in the dark, her swift footsteps echoing down the hall. Sherlock wasn't scared: on the contrary, he waited patiently, humming a little ditty until he heard his brother enter the room, a candle in hand. Without moving to assist him, Mycroft prompted immediately, "Well? Have you got them?" The younger one nodded, directing his elder with glances to the drawer at his side. Mycroft opened it, extracting the birth certificates of him and Sherlock, which the latter had found after days of searching. He smiled; his little brother was an expert at discovering, even at so young an age. Looking over both of them nonchalantly, he said, "Nanny didn't give you dinner, did she?" When Sherlock answered to the negative, Mycroft continued on. "It would be a good thing for you not to expect meals; she's not much of a cook. You must wean yourself off eating, Sherlock. It will serve you well." Moving to leave, he heard the mini-mummy piped up, "What're the papers for?" But his brother ignored him, ordering him to sleep. Holmes, with a well prepared answer, retorted, "I haven't got school tomorrow! Why don't we go to school?" Mycroft answered quickly, "Because mum and dad didn't take us to one."  
  
"Who are our mum and dad?"  
  
"Ask Nanny." And with that the door shut with a rapid creak.  
  
Poor Sherlock had no remembrance whatsoever of either of his parents. No matter how hard he racked his nimble brain or tried to remember anything at all, it was in vain. He had a keen mind, and an even keener memory, but still he could recall nothing. At times he wondered sadly why his parents had left. Was it his fault? Holmes decided to take Mycroft's advice and ask his aunt.  
  
The next night, as Nanny was wrapping the boy up as usual, he asked innocently, "Can I ask you a question, Nanny?" Laura Carling stopped, making the mistake of looking into the boy's eyes. They were a peculiar light gray, and shone with childish affection. How he could still be so affable at times after all she had done to him was a mystery. She sighed. "You ask to many questions, child." But after he begged and pleaded with her she had to give in. How couldn't she, with his darling face so anxious?  
  
"Do you promise to go to sleep afterwards?" He nodded vigorously. When she complied, he asked the same question he had asked Mycroft the night before, about their education, adding unhappily how all the other children did.  
  
His aunt's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"  
  
Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, "I see them walking to the school house. Mycroft told me what it was." Miss Carling scowled but he continued, "But all we ever do is stay inside! I don't know anybody else except my own brother!"  
  
Miss Carling's eyes unfocused, and she stared off into space as she murmured mysteriously, "You don't need friends to survive in life, child. Sometimes they hold you back." But she remembered the boy's promise and said quickly, "The reason you don't go to school, Sherlock, is because your mother didn't want you to go. Said you were smart enough already."  
  
Sherlock Holmes blinked suspiciously. "Mycroft told me it's because we're lepers." He saw his Auntie glare in the direction of Mycroft's room with a shake of her head and muttered, "Your brother's so good at lying he ought to be in the government." About to turn out the light, she heard her young charge ask in a high voice, "Nanny, who was my mum?" Unfortunately for him Carling had learned not to look into those mesmerizing eyes when refusing their possessor and snapped tersely, "Don't break your promises, child." Then, without another word, Sherlock was surrounded by darkness. But not for long, of course.  
  
At the bottom of each story, I couldn't resist adding a connections section. It wouldn't be an origin story if you didn't see the connections! And so, just in case you didn't, here it is.  
  
*Ever wondered where Holmes got his personality? He got it from his nanny, of course. In "The Copper Beeches", Holmes points out that he can tell the true nature of a couple from the disposition of their child. The parents were cruel and malicious; so the child was as well, taking out roaches with a slipper "faster than you can wink". *And everybody knows you can't stay away from food for days without having been starved as a kid. *Granada Series Fans: Jeremy Brett was often found shouting to "MRS HUDSON!!" Well, Holmes might've been paying Mrs. Hudson back for all the things his nanny did. But of course, he was still kind to her in his own little way, even though he was a bit petty. "Mrs. Hudson, please disappear (with a wave of both hands)" *I've always wondered why Mycroft and Holmes weren't very close, even as brothers. There was a sort of voided business-like tone in their dealings with each other, like a boss to a familiar employee. Seems that Mycroft wasn't there for his little bro at times. 


	4. The Origin

Sherlock squirmed in his sheet. His impatience boiled; no matter how much he kicked or rolled, the only way the blanket would loosen would be if he cut it open. Which was why he managed to have a pocketknife handy. It was a bit dull since he had found it in the grass that day on another illegal venturing out, but soon he had a slit big enough to rip apart. With a loud tearing sound he slipped out. Auntie was going to have a fit, but he was too young to care. Sherlock was already tall enough to reach the catch of his old window, and thanks to Mycroft, who had had the hinges oiled the night before; it opened with ease and silence. Like a trained acrobat, a skill all youngsters have until their limbs grow too long to keep track of, he slid down the ivy vines covering the building's façade. Of course, he had learned to pick his way out of his room's locked door and therefore sneak out like he had done earlier that week. But that wasn't as quick and was certainly risky during the nighttime. It excited him beyond anything else to be out of the reach of the law, which, at that time, belonged to his nanny.  
  
He crept catlike to a nearby window. Peering in, he perceived his nanny's quarters, but the woman herself was nowhere in sight. Using the knife he had swiped, Sherlock pushed back the latch. Mycroft would be so pleased with him.  
  
When he had crawled into the room, he lit a candle stump and proceeded to search his nanny's drawers. Sherlock never asked questions when his brother gave him an order, but he was able to puzzle out most of it. Mycroft was looking for their parents.  
  
A sigh arose out of the little boy's throat. He would've been doing the same thing if he could, but he wouldn't know where to start: he admired his brother for that. Someday he would make Mycroft prouder than ever. Maybe then he'd understand.  
  
The eldest Holmes lad had begun with their birth certificates; their parents' names would be there. Naturally, this wasn't enough to satisfy him, and he commissioned Sherlock to find more things belonging to their mother and father; pictures, watches, clothes, anything of the slightest significance needed to be brought to Mycroft. He would look at it for some time, leaving Sherlock to watch his methods freely, and would then return it to the little one to replace in its proper situate. So far Sherlock had brought his brother a battered old watch, a letter, even a tiny trinket, and each in turn was returned with a demand for further things. And who was more likely to have those things than their aunt?  
  
Soon, to his immense relief, he found a photograph. Who would've thought that the woman kept her most prized possessions in her desk drawers? Sherlock would've kept it under that floorboard in his room. Females were so strange. There had to be an easier way to have found it, but at least he had gotten it, right? Sherlock examined the other things in the drawer. There was a long knife, its handle decorated with strange carvings. Under it, a bag of coins, a necklace of gold, a beautifully embroidered pair of gloves, worn with age and use; and, at the very bottom, a Persian slipper. This last item, for some reason, intrigued the little boy, and he reached his hand out for it. The slipper could've fit a child, and its toe curved upward in the Muslim fashion. Curious, he thought, that there was only one slipper, and not two. The boy was just about to put the slipper back reluctantly when a firm grip took his collar from behind. 


	5. Not Alone

YAY! I got my own.. er.. black ball of fluff! * see myshawolf's chap. 13 of  
masquerade for details*  
JR: not only do I have my very own tickle me nightmare, but I've decided to  
take a bite out of Mysha's ficcys! Well, at least until I can figure out  
something to do. No, I'm not dead. I'm very much alive. I was just busy.  
Sorry it took so long, but at least I updated TWO fics at a time, right?  
Right. On with the motley!  
PS my Tickle me nightmare blob has taken on the shape of Arnold  
scwarsenegger. gee, where did that come from.  
Ahnold: I'll be bahk. Hey cahlifohnians- I'm yor new gubinator. Yor  
clothes - gib dem to me.  
JR: -_-;;  
PS: A good website used in the descriptions of this chapter and a good one  
for future SH writings is  
. And of  
course, there's Martin Fido's "World of Sherlock Holmes". I write  
according to that book and the information in it, which places the birth of  
Sherlock Holmes sometime around 1854. So that's that. And thank you for  
your reviews. On with the motley!  
~  
"Mycroft!"  
Sherlock had readied himself for the blow his Nanny was sure to give him,  
but imagine his surprise and disgust at finding his brother behind him! He  
flushed when Mycroft did that: showed that he was superior still. Someday  
he'd be proud of him. Someday, Sherlock Holmes would do something so well,  
Mycroft would be proud of him. But for now, Sherlock was still the little  
boy, tottering behind in his brother's footsteps.  
The young man smiled. "I came to see if you might need some help; even I  
don't know what you're looking for. He glanced over the box and its  
mysterious contents. His brow furrowed when he didn't find anything  
significant.  
"You're sure this is it?" He waved a huge hand. A grin crept across  
Sherlock's face as he pushed the photograph into his brother's palm.  
Relief and a rare smile were his rewards: nothing more. Standing high on  
his toes, Sherlock was able to study the photograph over his brother's  
shoulder. It had felt coarse and light in his fingers, and Mycroft held it  
as if it would shatter at any second. The hand quivered.  
Sitting in the photograph were two women and a man stood behind the one on  
the right. He had a moustache of huge proportions, and none of them seemed  
very cheerful at all. Or very handsome. They were simply frozen. But  
could these be his parents? The father he never had, and the mother he  
never remembered? His breath left his body for a moment and he gazed down  
onto the photo. And what about the other woman? What part did she play  
in his life?  
But Mycroft Holmes' brows furrowed. "Something is not right," he muttered.  
Sherlock's heart fell. So it wasn't over. Would he ever find them? The  
boy's sentiments were interrupted; he felt his brother stiffen next to him.  
Before he could determine why, Mycroft had pulled Sherlock after him into  
the depths of shadow, eyes fixed intently outside the window Sherlock had  
just broken into. The Persian slipper was left on the desk. Sherlock  
resisted the urge to grab it and keep it safe; he felt the vulnerability  
surrounding it. The darkness of the room added to his premonitions.  
Young Holmes was about to speak up again when it happened. He heard  
something outside. There it was again. It sounded like someone or  
something had just shifted their weight every so slightly on a patch of dry  
grass.  
They were not alone.  
~  
Author's note again: Yes I know it's short. Don't worry it's not writer's  
block (knock on wood); I just haven't had many cliffs lately. Yes, I am  
quite evil. Not to mention insane. I'm also quite stuck on where to go with  
it all after that so could you please give me your suggestions? Email  
(ca_frany@yahoo.com) with suggestions only, cuz I want some reviews on  
ff.net too. ;) 


	6. Not just any life memories

[Author's note: Yay! Ficcy update! I'm so nice to you. Especially since I'm SUPPOSED to be doing my homework. O:-)]  
  
Sherlock Holmes tried to hold his breath, tried not to move a single muscle in his body. It worked pretty well, and his eyes narrowed in an effort to see outside the window. He wanted to hit himself for leaving it open, but there was nothing he could do about it any longer. Mycroft kept a firm grip on his shoulder, in case he did something stupid, but what were the chances of that?  
  
The sound came again, and it was then that Sherlock saw a pale white hand reach out of the inky darkness of the night and push the window open further. Next, a leg, then the entire body of a well-built thug appeared in the room. The man was unmasked, with a slender face he did not bother to keep masked. He knew his job was a simple one; he had planned it perfectly. At least, his boss had.  
  
Without batting an eyelash, the crook strode directly to the desk. He did not seem to care that the box was on the table, in full sight, or that it was open and the contents scattered like stars in the sky. If he did his job well it would not matter. He picked out the other pair of the Persian slipper, which had intrigued Sherlock so much. Cool as ice, the man felt inside it and all around until at last he found that which he had searched for. With a skillful twist he was able to break a seam in the slipper, causing a powdery white substance to fall onto his hand.  
  
The crook was satisfied. A chuckle escaped his lips as he emptied the powder back into its sachet. Tucking both slippers into a hidden pocket, he took the rest of the box too, to make it look like a petty crime. He then took his leave as swiftly as he had arrived, leaving the two brothers in the room, unsure of what to make of the events. Sherlock made his decision and strode to the window, knowing Mycroft would follow without a word, for they say brothers are connected spiritually as well as mentally. That box contained the photo they needed, and the rest of the objects were important to their nanny. Besides, they'd be in a shipload of trouble if she discovered it was missing.  
  
Sherlock slipped out into the darkness and, as if by instinct, followed after the crook, even though it was pitch black all around him. Gradually, faster than he had expected, his eyes adjusted and gathered every ray of light they could find, and focused it on the crook. There was no moon in the sky, but the stars gave enough light. Mycroft fell behind, but they would find each other sooner or later, Sherlock noted. The thrill of the hunt made him keen to capture, it flowed in his very veins. It drove him on through the cold, until he heard a dull thunk. Great. Mycroft had probably run into a tree or something.  
  
But then the boy stopped. He listened. His ears seemed to straighten to their fullest, sharp as pin needles. The thud had come from ahead of him, just to his right. And Mycroft had been behind him the whole time, he was sure of it. Pinpointing the area the muffled sound had come from, Holmes crept closer, his eyes and other senses fully alert. It was like he could see in the dark, as if his eyes could cut through the blanket of shadows like a knife.  
  
At last he came to the robber, who seemed to be lying unconscious on the ground, a few feet away from a large larch tree. Sherlock cocked his head curiously at the crumpled figure, but had no time to gather his thoughts because Mycroft came up from behind him, analyzing the situation immediately.  
  
"See if you can find the stolen objects, Sherlock." He ordered crisply, catching his breath with a huff. The younger brother did so, and handed them to his elder, who examined the Persian Slipper with awe.  
  
"I knew there was something strange about this from the moment I noticed it." He murmured. Mycroft brought a bit of the powder to his lips, tasting just a sample of it and winced. "As I suspected: opium. It seems our long lost relation has more than lifetime souvenirs in that box of hers."  
  
Sherlock, who had not yet mastered the idea of crime and illegality, kept his gaze on the robber, who had not moved at all throughout the whole business. "What should we do with it? We shouldn't just leave him here." The boy's childish innocence worried about leaving somebody outside in the wintertime, but Mycroft asked coldly, "Why not?"  
  
"Well," Sherlock continued intelligently, "he might return again and could do more harm the next time. Either way, he belongs in Scotland Yard." His brother sneered at his suggestion, calling the constables fools and pondering to himself what to do. Sherlock just kept staring at the body. He could've sworn he saw it move.  
  
[Author's note: *monty grins mischievously * I couldn't help adding in the larch thing - monty python! "The Larch. The Larch." Don't forget to review! Who cares if I'm the author? I'm stuck there! SO give me alllll your suggestions: every single one. Unless they're really dumb.] 


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